Winter Winds

Cold to crack the bones

a nothwest wind doth send

sharpened teeth it hones

Ahoy, the winter wind !

Flesh from bone t’will rend

among the trees it moans

O the fire I shall tend !

Over the hill it groans

screaming round the bend

incessantly it drones

Ahoy! The winter wind.

Southern Porn

The full moon atop yon pine, prodigious, yellow and precariously perched

brings words like turgid, and tumscent to one’s mind.

The gently sweating cooler causes steamy, sultry, and torrid

to rush to your tounge.

Things waft and burgeon, the very air has a palatible texture

soft, silky, and damp

Scents hanging in a veritable miasma of sweetness.

Enormous Luna and Spinx moths flap by,

sipping from moon flowers that are popping open

like tiny explosions, hemming one in.

It is all too momentous, weighty, and substantial.

Fireflies flit about, providing neon lighting for the edges of the woods

while blinking their message of sex.

Shrieking crickets, screeching circadas, screaming frogs, and harumphing gators

all incessantly beg for love

shattering the serenity of the night into nonexistance with their ceaseless need.

 

Listening

I sit there

listening to a bable of people and traffic

loud and busy.

I sit here

listening to a single dog bark

far off and away.

And I am me

alone inside myself

in both places.

 

Cat Fur

My trouser cuffs are vaugely blurry

perhaps because they are so furry

my shoes are looking rather shaggy

and so much fluff makes my sweaters baggy

my hat it seems is all abristle

resembling a battered thistle

the sofas are all quite hirsute

never mind my beleagured suit

all this hair is not from me

my cat is shedding don’t you see

 

Night Gathers

Night slips in on soft feet, but not silently. You can hear the jays arguing over the best bedding spots and a few determined frogs still laying claim to their territory before it gets too cold. The insects have largely abandoned the autumn woods but one can hear a gaggle of geese gabbling their way to the ground just beyond the brow of the hill. The yellow leaves of the cherry stand out against the gathering dusk while the brown leaves of the oak blend in. In a week or two there won’t be enough leaves on either to amount to a good fire. Traffic has begun to make that low, slow, going home purr, it’s lights becoming brighter with each passing moment as the grey skies fades quietly into black. A slight mist begins to fall and for an instant all of the trees on the horizon stand out in stark relief before the gloom swallows them utterly. An owl hoots and the jays cease their squabbles abruptly. Somehow it has segued into full dark without my noticing. The mist is making my sweatshirt heavy and turning my once cheerful fire into a smoking heap. I think I shall retreat indoors and allow the autumn night to claim this hill.

The Embers

the heat is still there, a shimmering glow

but the flame is not as high nor as hungry

yet a banked fire still burns

passion’s white heat in abayance

conserving it’s finite fuel

but a banked fire still burns

it only takes one leaping spark

one smouldering obsession,

for a banked fire still burns

some small scrap of fuel may ignite

a conflageration that burns down the house

yes a banked fire still burns

so tread carefully near the hearth

be wary of the fuel you add

because a banked fire still burns

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Yondering

To see around the bend

In search of what comes next

I’ll follow every wind

Curiosity ever vexed

In search of what comes next

Going to see the elephant

Curiosity ever vexed

wandering where it went

Going to see the elephant

Sure it’s just over the hill

wandering where it went

My feet cannot be still

Sure it’s just over the hill

A perfect place it will be

My feet cannot be still

O’er the mountains, beyond the sea

A perfect place it will be

Just there across the river

O’er the mountains, beyond the sea

I see paradise forever

Just there across the river

Someday surely I will rest

I see paradise forever

Having found the place that’s best

Someday surely I will rest

Although I think that probably

Having found the place that’s best

For me he’ven’s in the journey

Although I think that probably

I’ll follow every wind

For me he’ven’s in the journey

To see around the bend

Haiku

A comma of cats

rythmic tails metronoming

window sill watchers

The Sea

The sea is hard and cold and deep,

she is cruel and careless too

but she quiets the things I rue

and when she whispers I can sleep.

‘Tis peace I find here at the shore

the smells of rot and some decay

bind to salt in a pleasing way

and life’s travails pang me no more.

The waves and tide in her abide

and wild surfs wash clean many pasts

sand filing edges smooth at last,

she’s freeing souls for one last ride.

The wheeling soaring gulls do cry

but at the ocean’s side, not I.

Sand

Insidiously creeping stuff,

insinuating into food

and other places much more crude,

rasping ones’ skin until it’s rough.

It slides inside my shoes you see

and fills them full, no room for feet

and thence prevents my being fleet.

It seems it just won’t let me be.

By going to the sea it seems

I must sacrifice some comfort

for the joys that the ocean brings.

Like seeing how the sunlight gleams

and how the shrimp boats come to port.

My heart soars as the ocean sings.

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